How We Practice Resurrection
by Flyaway21
Summary: Draco knew he was dying long before his eyes closed. Too heavy, always too heavy and he wasn't even sorry that he lost the fight to keep them open. A story about blurred lines.
1. Chapter 1

_"_ _O starry night, This is how I want to die."_ - **Anne Sexton**

* * *

Draco knew he was dying long before his eyes closed.

Too heavy, always too heavy and he wasn't even sorry that he lost the fight to keep them open.

The telltale metallic smell of blood was all around- soaking through his white shirt, turning it a rusty brown, and then spreading further along the rocks and dirt beneath him. A forest, he thought, circled round him. The gnarled branches above hadn't quite blocked out the stars but they flickered ever dimmer and Draco wasn't sure whether it was the deepening light or his fading eyesight. Somewhere to his left a river groaned on its journey to deposit some of the heavy ice it was laden with.

Draco had been on his knees by the time he finished apparating and collapsed only a few breaths after.

It had only taken a few scant heartbeats for everything to go to hell.

The attack had come with a swift intensity none of them had expected. Dumbledore's precious Order of the Phoenix had been all but wiped out but those that remained had learned how to fight dirty.

If he wasn't dying, Draco might have been impressed.

The wand work had been a touch off from shoddy but the ambush was executed with a subtlety that he didn't know the Order possessed.

And to think it had only taken them a year to muster up any semblance of challenge.

One year to the day since the world imploded, since the line between the good and bad had become that much more pronounced.

Funny that he felt his own world had faded to a messy grey.

A year filled with nightmares that he kept at bay by pushing his body to stay moving long after the skin under his eyes had darkened. And prayed that his mind would be too exhausted to conjure up new horrors.

Horrors that were really memories.

Vivid memories of death and blood and smoke. He had stopped counting the times his had almost been taken and the times that he had taken others. A year living up to the mark that had been engraved into his very skin. His very soul. And collecting new scars in the process.

A year since Snape had died and Potter had failed and disappeared.

A year of searching and never finding. Of countless enemies and few friends and none that he trusted. None who trusted him. Only a fool would trust a Death Eater, especially one of the few favored of their Dark Lord.

Lucius' fall from grace had been abrupt, as was Draco's rise to take his place. Unlike his father, Draco had kept his position- not through pretty words and piles of gold, but through cunning and blood and sweat.

And tonight was supposed to have been Draco's final test. It seemed simple enough. They had received word that three or four members of the Order were meeting. Draco and a few others were to rid the world of their existence.

He thought it would be Lupin. Maybe one of the Weasleys. One of the foolish teachers at Hogwarts who had cast their lot with the doomed Order.

What he got had been something very different. Even now, he wondered if Voldemort had known. Had sent Draco because he suspected there was still weakness in Draco. Because of _her_.

Nymphadora. Tonks. His cousin.

In the still silence that seemed to leak into moments of violence, just before the air had crackled and spun with spells, Draco had been taken with memories- things he hadn't thought on for years.

He had only been five or six but Malfoy Manor had been a little less cold and lonely when she'd come to play with him. He could remember the sound of her laughter- not charming and demurred like the other highborn ladies attempted, but great swells of noise that seemed to come straight from her gut. Lucius had warned her then that she would never find a suitable husband with hair that resembled cotton candy. Or scraped knees and dirt under fingernails.

But Tonks had never been one for deception, odd for sure, judging by how the others in her family excelled at the art. She hadn't cared what his father thought and Draco had secretly worshipped her for that alone. At least for a time.

Before he learned that she was a traitor, a Muggle sympathizer. A werewolf lover. That knowledge had been enough for Draco to banish her from his mind.

But when the time had come to kill her, to make her pay for her treason, Draco had remembered her bright eyes, crinkled in laughter. He hadn't wanted to think of it. But he had.

And Draco had never killed a woman.

The half second of hesitation had been enough.

In the end, it was a relief. To be done with it all, to be able to give up in a quiet place without anyone accusing him of being a coward. No one would know how often he wondered what would have happened if he had made a different choice a year ago. Or if he had a different father. If the blood that ran through his veins wasn't so pure.

At least the pain had begun to fade- the great burning patches of charred skin where half a dozen spells had caught him were still open and weeping but the combination of the cold dirt below him and the chilled air had numbed all but the worst injuries. His fever had taken care of the rest and abandoned his mind in that hazy forgotten space that might have been reality if the world had shattered like a time turner.

As his vision began to tunnel, Draco could hear his father's voice in his head. Absentmindedly, he wished it was his mother instead. She was nowhere near perfect and more than a little disillusioned but her voice, always too husky for her own refined taste, would have been soothing compared to his father's rough berating tone.

For being weak.

For having the audacity to die without finishing his task.

If it hadn't hurt so much, Draco might have laughed and offered up one last middle finger to the old man.

Let him witness his son bleed out. A warped kind of poetic justice to be sure. Except Draco knew the world wasn't fair and that in all probability his father was alive and hiding in some dark hole. And when the sun rose, after Draco was dead, he would crawl out and run back to Voldemort like a whipped dog.

And that would be that.

His mother would be alone, in the middle of a war she hadn't really wanted, one she didn't know how to fight.

One that she knew could cost her a husband and son everyday.

For family honor. Pureblood honor. A wizard's honor.

Funny Draco didn't feel very honorable at the moment, about to sacrifice his life for the cause he was raised on.

He just felt tired.

The world lay muted in the darkness, so still that he could hear the snow falling, could imagine the great fat clumps of white drifting down, down, down.

Time passed- seconds or hours, Draco was beyond being able to tell. There was a sound to his right, perhaps footsteps, crunching lightly. Timidly wondering closer.

But Draco didn't hear.

Half a dozen miles to the south was a small town where people fell asleep in their beds with no thoughts of war and death and blood. A world away. Further it felt.

Draco burned.


	2. Chapter 2

_"_ _The visible exhausts me. I am dissolved in shadow."_ \- **Theadore Roethke**

* * *

They were bonds around Draco's wrists but he could tell before he opened his eyes that they weren't secured very well. By a novice, undoubtedly. Someone who hadn't spent nearly as much time as he had tying others up, or being tied up in return. Still, being bound by a stranger was a novel experience for Draco.

Though the air around him was much warmer than he remembered, it still smelled of winter snow. Little by little, he turned his head to the side, caught a rough blur of yellow light behind closed eyes and realized it was a fire that warmed his bones.

The world came back in broken pieces- the crackling flames, the billowing wind, the rustle of a blanket atop him as he shifted ever so slightly to the side.

He blinked, once, twice. Swallowed down the dry desert in his throat, allowed himself a moment of respite when his stomach didn't rebel at the motion.

But it still hurt. Every single inch felt as if he had been laid over a grill and turned back and forth like a bloody steak. He flexed his arms and glanced down at the frayed rope that held him in place.

A witch or wizard would have been able to heal him with a flick of the wrist. Even the most basic could have at least managed to numb the worst of his injuries. Which meant…Draco swallowed down a hiss of pain as he propped himself up on his elbow to survey the cave. His grey eyes narrowed when they landed on a solitary figure that sat on the other side of the flames.

"You've got to be bloody kidding me." His voice was deep and raw and sounded like sandpaper but Draco supposed it adequately communicated his disdain at the situation.

A small sigh and then a voice in a tone he remembered all too well said, "Really Malfoy, you could at least thank me. I did save your life."

Hermione Granger looked exactly the same as he remembered her, a little worse for wear perhaps- but with the same gravity defying hair that stood on end, same barely there freckles that peppered the tip of her nose, the same brown eyes that regarded him with pure distrust. As if she were preparing for battle. "I had to drag you the whole way."

He tore his eyes from hers and looked off to the entrance of the cave that yawned a dozen feet away and sloped slightly down so that they were protected from the worst of the storm's wind. Judging by the complete darkness that waited beyond, Draco guessed it was sometime in the late hours of dusk.

True to her word, Draco could see scrapes in the dirt presumably where his shoes had caught. And small flecks of red that he left behind.

He struggled to sit, ignoring the pain that bit into his side at the motion. There were telltale signs of extended use all around- a small pile of wood stood off to the side, a pot of water that had been lain across the fire just beginning to whistle- tea, judging by the sharp smell of peppermint. A neat pile of clothes were folded and laid on a bed of raised rock. Just below sat a pair of sturdy brown boots. He wondered just how long she'd been there, alone, it seemed.

Draco turned his attention back to the witch who was watching him warily. "What are you doing out in the middle of nowhere?"

"That's none of your concern." She sniffed, so reminiscent of the girl he had known at school that Draco was struck by the strangest urge to laugh.

The moment broke a second later when she moved to kneel next to him and he was able to see her fully, thrown into the light of the flames, so close that he could smell the smoke that clung to her skin, close enough to touch. She dug around in her pocket for a moment before fishing out something that caught the light and flared like quicksilver.

A small curved blade.

"I think I'll untie you know." She murmured, more to herself than to him and not sounding at all certain as to how she reached that particular conclusion.

Draco blinked and propped his hands on his knees, an offering and a clear dare. And he knew just what she would do. Her face would scrunch into that expression the was part determination and pure frustration and she would untie him if only just to spite him. Just to show that she wasn't afraid.

True to form, she swallowed hard and then her fingers found his, so cold that he barely resisted the urge to flinch. Hardly a phantom ghost- he could tell she didn't want to touch him anymore than he wanted her to. And then gentler than he would have been, she cut the rope in one smooth motion.

"How did you find me?" He asked quickly, before she could move away and shroud the emotions that played plain across her face. Subtlety was a skill that few Gryffindors excelled at and here was the perfect opportunity to exploit that.

She wavered. Draco could practically hear the gears twirling in her head, trying to figure out what harm telling him could do. Finally, when his patience was nearing its end, she said, "I was…waiting for someone."

"Who?" he pressed.

She scowled, obviously irritated by his curiosity and said nothing.

Draco thought for a moment. Surely it wasn't just chance that he had seen both Granger and Tonks in the space of a day. "Perhaps that useless cousin of mine?"

The blood drained from her face with startling swiftness. "Why would you think that?"

He gave a small shrug of the shoulders in reply, let her have a taste of her own medicine.

She stood so suddenly that Draco felt a little dizzy at the motion, "Where is Tonks? What happened to her?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He sneered, fascinated by the sight of her fists curling in anger.

"Tell me now Malfoy or else." She all but shook with it and Draco felt a fierce burn of pleasure at the sight.

He gave a nasty laugh, "What could you possibly do to me?" A small, very distant part of his mind reminded him that it might not be wise to push a witch so fast and so far for the sole intent of a provoking a reaction but he found it all too easy to ignore that small voice away. For the first time in recent memory, his blood thrummed with life and all the anger and pain splayed on her face only fueled it.

There was a kind of panicked desperation as she knelt next to him. Draco knew he should pull away, should never be so close to a mudblood but he remained hypnotized, hoping that she would rise to the occasion as she always did, hoping that she would push him back and make him _forget ,_ if only just for a second.

With a move so fast that he wasn't able to react until it was too late, Hermione reached out to grab his shoulder where the worst spell had caught him and burned away layers of skin and tissue until the muscle had been laid open.

She dug her fingers into the wound and pushed closer, "Tell me."

Draco hissed and jerked away but Hermione followed, almost crawling on top of him, refusing to let go. He could feel the wound begin to bleed again, could feel the warm pattern of blood as it dripped down his arm.

A white streak of anger blazed through him like lightning. Draco captured her wrist in his hand and squeezed. That flash across her face, so familiar, was like looking in a mirror. Almost like reflex, she struck out with her other hand, clumsy in her fury, her _need_ to hit any part of him.

Draco snatched that one too before she could do anymore damage, his fingers winding tight wound the delicate wrists like a steel cage, pressing until he could feel the bone underneath.

Hermione's eyes scrunched in pain but she bit her lip, refusing to make a sound. They stayed that way for several long seconds, mere inches apart, their breath heavy in the space between them, the sound reverberating inside the cave, making it feel so much smaller and darker. Draco could taste the bitterness rolling off her in waves, see the boiling hatred that had transformed the golden flecks in her eyes into pinpoints of fire. Strange that the feeling of her heartbeat thrumming furiously beneath his own seemed to keep him anchored in place, like he was watching them both from far away.

He gave her one final shake that made her teeth rattle, "Touch me again and you'll be sorry." She shrank back against the threat and he released her so suddenly that she fell backwards and toppled messily on the ground. Her cheeks darkened in embarrassment but she climbed to her feet and met his gaze, which he knew was no small thing.

"Why didn't you use your wand to bring me here?" he demanded, leaning back like nothing had happened. "Honestly, I never believed it when they said you claimed you were intelligent."

Hermione's eyes burned as she rubbed her wrist but she didn't say anything.

That was enough to capture Draco's attention. Since when did the mud blood give up without a fight?

He grinned in realization, ignoring the way his lip split and seeped. The taste of iron seemed to light a fire in his empty belly, "You don't have a wand do you?"

"I do." She said at once and with too much certainty for it to be true. There was fear in her eyes, not as veiled as she tried to make it. Fear of him. Of what he could do to her, if he'd wanted. And yet she'd freed him. Stupid girl.

Draco found he didn't relish the sight as much as he hoped he would have.

"I couldn't do anything even if I wanted to." Gingerly, Draco laid back down, trying to ignore how his body screamed in protest at every move, especially now that the adrenaline was wearing thin. The warmth of the cave was lulling him back to blissful unconsciousness. "Not tonight at least. But in the morning…" he let her think about that.

She was still sitting motionless when he glanced at her one last time, staring at the flames as if they hid answers just beyond her sight. She looked small and tired and very much alone and Draco almost forgot that he had made her that way. That she was one of the few left. And with each passing day, she had one less friend breathing, one less place to seek shelter. And now he had taken another. "Weasel and Golden boy aren't near are they?"

Hermione didn't react and for a second he thought she must not have heard him. But then she gave a barely there shake of her head and winced like the motion had hurt. Now she she seemed oblivious to the world, he allowed himself a moment to take in her appearance. She was always a tiny thing but now the outline of her face was sharper and defined in a way that Draco knew only came from lack of food and sleep. The rosy hue that had been a constant fixture in her cheeks was all but devoid of color. The coat she wore was one size too big and torn in the shoulder. The knuckles that were still scrunched tight were decorated with little flecks of dried blood- his or hers, he couldn't tell. And it was that simple realization that hurt more than all his injuries combined.

And when Draco felt something stir within him that wasn't exactly hatred, he blinked rapidly, trying to clear it from his mind. A side effect of the blood loss, no doubt, weakening his resolve, making him forget what she was. And what she wasn't. He reminded himself that she never deserved a wand, that the ability that ran through her veins was nothing more than a freak mistake of biology. Stolen power.

The universe laughing.

That it was his responsibility to rid the world of people like her. Now that his fortitude had righted itself once more, he felt curiosity take the place of his doubt.

There was a story there- the fracturing of the bloody Golden Trio. Not that he would lose a lick of sleep over it.

Potter and Weasley could be dead for all he cared.

Better for him if they were.

Soon, Granger would be too.

* * *

Well, what do you guys think so far? Just kind of finding this story along the way. Probably gonna change it to M rating at a later date….maybe. For now, who knows? Remember, reviews make the world go round- or mine at least- so leave me one. :)


	3. Chapter 3

_"_ _I will show you fear in a handful of dust."_ **T.S. Eliot**

* * *

Draco was healing faster than Hermione had expected him to, especially without the use of any spells or potions. He had slept through the night, barely moving, hardly seeming to breathe. A few times, Hermione had crept over to him and laid her fingers above his mouth, just to make sure.

Not that she knew what to do if he wasn't. Not without her wand. Or her books.

It had been impossible for her to fall asleep, even when she felt like she could close her eyes and not open them for years. Especially then.

And early the next morning, she watched as Draco stood to his feet, biting away any noise of pain he might have been unable to suppress. His eyes had dilated a bit and for just second he swayed before he was able to right himself. Hermione found herself unable to move, suddenly reminded just how much taller than her he was, how his shoulders were wider than they had any right to be.

How he moved in that impossibly graceful way as though he was more smoke than man.

She felt that sinking prickle in her stomach that forewarned of danger and wondered not for the first time if she had done the right thing in dragging him to the cave.

Especially since there was no point in trying to twist the truth to assuage her guilt any longer.

No reason not to see Draco for what he was- a Death Eater. A servant of Voldemort.

The boy before her had killed her friends, their schoolmates.

Even worse, she knew he would kill again and then wouldn't that blood be on her hands as well?

Since then, three days earlier, Draco had forced himself to stay upright, only seeking respite after the sun had sunk below the distant horizon, like he had something to prove. Not to her of course, but to himself. She supposed Death Eaters weren't allowed to be weak, even if there was no one around to witness.

In the beginning, his already pale skin had faded to a ghostly pallor from the strain. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out over his forehead, making his silver hair stick to his forehead in curling rivulets.

And Hermione had only watched, a tad impressed by his discipline. More than a little concerned when he wavered on his feet. Back at Hogwarts, she had always seen Draco as lazy- a spoiled rich brat who sought to make her life as miserable as possible.

But it seemed the new world had changed him. Still rich and spoiled, still trying to make her miserable- or even worse, dead. But there was an undercurrent of steel that hadn't been there before. As if Draco had fought each and every day to remain alive. And what remained was a wary predator who saw enemies everywhere, likely because for him, they were.

And so she took in this strange new version of the boy she had once known in watchful silence, trying to unravel him like she would a complicated rune.

Perhaps he noticed other things in her too because she could feel his eyes scraping away at her surface. Even her dreams swam with splashes of sharp silver among polished marble. A wrinkled white shirt and easing out from under the sleeve was a twisting mark of black ink and blood even darker.

And then she would wake covered in cold sweat, her heart hammering away in her chest. Still possessed by the remnants of nightmares, Draco's eyes would find her. Though he never commented on them, she suspected he knew they were about him.

More and more, she had begun to wonder what he saw when he looked at her, if she had changed just as much. She certainly didn't feel like the girl whose main goal in life had been to score perfect OWLs.

And as the bitterly cold days ticked by, she kept to herself, exchanging nothing more than passing nothings.

Knew that she couldn't.

He would heal and then he'd be gone and Hermione would be damned if she allowed herself to get used to having someone, anyone, around again. Even company as prickly as Malfoy.

Hermione sighed and rubbed her eyes until small fireworks exploded behind them. A year of being alone and she had been reduced to this pathetic creature that was so desperate for company…

No, she already knew she would have to leave. Once Draco was well enough to walk away, the cave would no longer be safe.

Fighting to push the inevitable from her mind, she selected one of the few books that remained and flipped it open to a random page, holding it more for comfort than anything else. Feeling its delicate pages beneath her fingers, smelling the mixture of dust and vanilla proved to be more reassuring than she was willing to admit.

The pages were dogeared from use; the spine was cracking so that each time she opened it, the seams stretched a little further than before. Barely anything holding it together, she thought ruefully. Half a dozen times she had read and reread and still there was nothing, nothing between its paragraphs that would help her.

For the first time she could remember, books had failed her and despite everything that had happened, she felt a sharp pain at the thought.

Silly, all things considering.

"That's how I remember you- nose stuck in a book. Oblivious to the rest of the world." Draco's voice startled her from reverbre but she didn't spare him a glance.

He'd become increasingly desperate to provoke a reaction from her that morning. Maybe because he had also realized that reality was fast approaching. And he needed to remind himself why he hated her, especially since she'd be the target of Death Eaters after he brought back the news that she was still alive.

Rousing a reaction had quickly taken the form of hurled insults. Most of which Hermione managed to shake off with practiced ease.

She heard Malfoy stand, to leave the cave presumably. They could only take so much of each other, especially in such tight spaces.

So Hermione was taken back a few seconds later when she looked up to find him crouched next to her. Even more surprised when his hand reached out to snatch her wrist and jerk her forward.

"I'm talking to you." He growled. There was certainly a crazed look behind his eyes; in the scattered light he looked half feral. And before she could open her mouth or even think of a reply, Malfoy stood, dragging her along. The book landed on the floor with a thump that echoed in the empty spaces.

He leaned forward, leaving too little space between them, just to see the traces of fear had darkened the flecks of gold in her eyes. "Don't touch me." She hissed and tried to jerk her arm away to no avail.

"I'll do what I want. Maybe I've changed my mind, maybe you are good for something else…" His hand on her arm hurt, not as much as before, but enough to remind her who was in charge. Enough that she realized his slim form disguised muscle and strength and that he had evolved from the bully in school to something with sharper edges. That she was no match for him even injured as he was.

The thought should have been terrifying. If it were anyone but Malfoy, it would have been. But Hermione know that just being close to her was probably torture to someone like him. Even now, he was probably listing the ways she was tarnished in his mind, how dirty her blood was.

"You won't." She said, though her breathing had quickened a bit, "You couldn't possibly want that."

She could see that her words surprised him and wondered why. It was a well known fact that Draco hated her. Even if she were pureblood, even if she were descended from a family as old as his, she suspected their relationship would be much the same.

Some things never changed.

For a moment, Hermione feared she might have underestimated him. She could almost feel the slap that was sure to come, sudden and stinging, the blow powerful enough to send her to her knees.

Instead, he settled for a sneer and released her in a move so sudden that she stumbled back. "If you were this self-deprecating at Hogwarts, you would have been easier to tolerate. Finally learned your place."

Hermione rubbed her wrist, still bruised and swollen from a few night earlier when his fury had been thick enough to taste. But Draco didn't look particularly angry now; he just looked confused. And when she took another step back, Draco let her, his eyes following. She didn't know why but she got the distinct feeling that she had won a round she hadn't even known they were playing.

Perhaps Draco realized it at the same time because he straightened and plastered a smirk on his handsome face. "Fess up Granger. What did they do to you to create this timid mouse?" he asked, as if hearing stories of her pain would be a balm to his own. "Or did Potter and Weasley abandon you? The only two people who could stand being around you."

Hermione was seized by the sudden and overwhelming urge to smack him, like she had done so many years ago when they were both children, back when Harry and Ron had stood at her side and Crabbe and Goyle at his.

The only reason she refused was that it was most assuredly what he wanted her to do. So she kept her shaking hands balled at her side and settled for a glare.

And when his words didn't prompt her to violence, his smooth features twisted into a scowl. He looked down at her with that arrogance that she had always loathed and she hated, hated the fact that she felt so small and weak when he was the one that was hurt and just as wandless as she.

Hated what he could reduce her to so easily now. What she never would have allowed at Hogwarts.

"I should't have saved you." Hermione said, her voice as poisonous as a viper.

Draco didn't look at all hut by her words. He only nodded as a crooked grin stretched across his face. "That sympathy is going to get you killed."

And then it was over just as quickly as it had begun. Hermione kept her secrets and Draco kept his sins and the night deepened into a sullen silence that neither felt they'd won.

* * *

And Chapter 3 is up! Thank you Kindering for your reviews! I can tell this is going to be a long FF. Not quite AU but the story is definitely going off track compared to the books. Just a warning-if you can't already tell- this is going to get dark. And on we go!


	4. Chapter 4

_"_ _Here and gone. That's what it is to be human, I think—to be both someone and no one at once, to hold a particular identity in the world and to feel that solid set of ties also capable of dissolution, slipping away, as we become moments of attention."_ ― **Mark Doty**

* * *

Hermione's eyes watered from the dark curling smoke that wafted up her nose and into her mouth. Barely resisting the urge to spit the acidic taste out, instead she aimed a hard scowl at the porridge. Or rather, what remained of it.

The edges had blackened faster than she managed to snatch the pot from atop the fire. All in all, dinner had resulted in a cave full of thick, grey air and her own slightly charred fingers. After so long without a wand, she had become fairly adept at preparing her own food without the use of magic. After all, she had helped her mother prepare Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners at home.

But Draco had chosen that night to be especially distracting. A week since she had found him and the worst of his wounds had begun to scab over. She had stitched him together as best she could while he remained blissfully unconscious. Another week or two and they'd have to be taken out. The bruises had gone from blue to green to yellow, slow to release the spotted rainbow across his face and ribs. Strangely enough as the pain had lessened and his body had begun to grow stronger, Draco's temper had grown worse.

Tossing the spoon to the floor, Hermione turned to face Draco, fully expecting some quip about how bad she was at doing something even this simple. She could even hear his voice, that smug _infuriating_ tone, echo inside her head.

What she found was something else entirely.

There was a strange twitch around his lips, and Hermione was struck dumb by the fact that he was trying, quite badly, to suppress a smile.

He looked so much younger in that moment. Only a year older than she was, Hermione realized with a pang that pulled at something deep inside her chest. It had been so long since she'd thought of herself as a child, so long since she, Ron, and Harry had carried so much responsibility on their shoulders that she forgot most of the world would still label them as kids. Teenagers.

She seized the moment to study him.

Draco certainly wasn't a child but he wasn't quite a man either. Capable of so much destruction and here he was, dimples just beyond sight. Thin from skipped meals, pale from blood loss; speckles of red still stained his shirt, dry and crusted by now. The skin under his eyes had darkened from sleepless nights.

She didn't want to relate to that, didn't want even a single string of understanding to connect her to the monster that sat before her. But she knew how nightmares could feel like all the air had been sucked from the world, like you had been cut open and laid bare. And despite the darkness that plagued her own dreams, Draco had seen more. Done more.

"Why do you follow Voldemort?" Hermione was surprised to find that she had spoken. She had been curious of it before now, had wondered ever since they were children why Draco spoke of blood purity with such assurance and passion. Back then, she assumed it was just his family forcing their own prejudices down his throat. That he hadn't had much of a chance from the beginning, if stories of his father held any semblance of truth. Brainwashed as a child.

But now he was alone, almost a man. His father had been disgraced; everyone knew that it was a miracle the Dark Lord hadn't slaughtered Lucius long ago.

His father was gone, no more than a passing character in Draco's life and still his path hadn't altered in the slightest.

The ever familiar guarded look returned to Draco's eyes so quickly that she wondered if it was ever gone in the first place.

When he answered, his voice was raw from lack of use, "You think I'm different because we went to school together? You think I'm any different from the other death Eaters-"

"Just like your father?" she prodded.

He stilled. And Hermione wondered for a second if she had pushed too far; there was something frightening about him, even more than when he hissed like a viper at her. Something cold and calculating and steeped in shadows.

"I know that your father was found a few months ago." His voice turned cruel and she could hear deep inside his desperate need to hurt her. To draw some of that dirty blood. Old habits resurfacing.

The nightmares rose up again. Inside them, she could feel the stone and snow stretching to form steel bars.

A cage.

She had imagined countless times what her father would have seen and smelled and felt. Fear and sweat mingled in the air, creating something sharp and pungent. It would have been cold, she knew. He would have shivered. Perhaps even wept.

There would have been screaming ad blood and begging and so much pain. She closed her eyes and willed the images, already etched into her mind, to fade away.

But Draco continued, "I know that he was tortured for information- not by me of course. One of the wizards who had a knack for that sort of thing. Turns out he didn't know anything because that spell you put on him was actually worth something. Didn't help him in the end though did it?"

With all the strength she could muster, Hermione swallowed down the bile in her throat. Ever since she had learned of her father's capture, she had spent weeks picturing what they did, what they could have done. Maybe they used the Cruciatus Curse. Maybe they were a bit more inventive. They never would have learned anything from him. Not a single memory that tied Hermione to him as a daughter. As a stranger even.

It was as if she had never existed. A blank slate. She had hoped he would find a way to be happy, even if it meant finding another family to share it with. Maybe find someone else- another wife, another daughter, because deep in her heart, past all the hoping and wishing, Hermione knew she would never see him again. Never get swept up in his strong hands that smelled of soap and leather. Never hear the rich baritone read a chapter aloud from his favorite book.

Hermione was suddenly glad she hadn't yet eaten anything that day or it would surely be all over the cave floor. Her father was dead because of her. She should never have left him alone.

"Your mother hasn't been found though." He shrugged, like it meant nothing at all. "But we'll find her sooner or later."

Her mother, sweet and soft spoken, with gentle hands that had wiped away tears. Hands that comforted. The things they could do…

"Why not try now?" Her voice came out even, a complete contrast to the way her body shook and her heart thundered. They couldn't have her mother. Couldn't, couldn't, couldn't.

Draco obviously hadn't expected her reaction. He was probably hoping she would beg and plead. Hoping for another glimmer of weakness. "What?"

"Do you need a wand to get information from someone?" He blinked when she pushed, "Come on then. Make me tell you. I'm sure it's an art form your father has mastered by now." A small part of her mind was screaming that she was being stupid pushing Draco like this. That one of these times she would push too far and suffer the consequences but at the moment, she couldn't find it within herself to care. Not when Draco's face twisted in pain. There was nothing she wanted more in that moment than to hurt him just like he'd hurt her. "Everyone knows what your father does. Everyone knows what you come from. You think my blood is dirty but your father is an animal."

She could feel the barbs just as if they fallen from her tongue to hook against his skin.

Draco stood. "Be quiet." He hissed.

But Hermione, emboldened by his discomfort, pushed further, "And what does your mother think? Maybe she doesn't mind what he does to those prisoners, especially the women."

"Enough!" Draco's voice rose to a roar.

Hermione discovered that her chest was heaving, that her breath was coming in shorter and faster gasps like she had just run some great distance. It certainly felt that way. Her muscles burned so deep that she suspected her bones had begun to fracture under the pressure.

On the other hand, Draco looked as if he could barely lift a finger. Could hardly look at her.

Shame was a strange emotion to see on his features. It flushed his skin to a dusty pink, make his grey eyes shine. Made him look like a lost boy.

She closed her eyes hard, felt the rage seep from her veins. She wished she could keep it but these days, it faded like everything else. "I see."

"Do you?" Draco hadn't sounded malicious when he asked that, just very, very tired. Almost like he'd forgotten she was even there.

She shook her head. "No, not really." His glanced at her once more, quickly, but she was already standing, reaching for the water jug. Needing to be gone before her traitorous eyes gave her away. "I'm going to the stream."

His gaze was like a live flame on the back of her neck and it wasn't until the darkness had swallowed her whole that she let some of the stiffness drop from her stance.

The air was bitterly cold and stung at the exposed skin of her face and neck. But Hermione didn't mind all that much. The moon proved good company. She had grown used to the silence, was getting good at pretending their voices didn't flood into the quiet.

A few minutes of trekking through the snow and she arrived at the river. Over the past few weeks, the fragile lining of ice had thickened into something substantial. Hermione picked out a sharp rock from the edge of the stream, gently turning this one and that over until she found one that met her liking. Then she knelt gingerly on the ice and began to pick away at the frozen surface.

Animals were few and far in between in such deep winter but she learned that snow had a life of its own. It creaked and groaned atop branches and whispered in the wind.

It was a slow methodical process that suited Hermione just fine. Carving a perfect circle into the ice, piece by piece. Hooking the bucket to a thin rope. Angling it just right so the current wouldn't rip it away.

An hour passed. And then two. Hermione soaked up the peace until her fingers began to turn blue. Until the moon disappeared behind a new snowfall. The water in the bucket had turned to ice itself and seemed to grow heavier as she stood and heaved it over one shoulder.

There was a small noise, a shift in the wind, and Hermione stumbled. The wetness soaked into the fabric of her hands and knees as she fell. Her fingers were numb so it wasn't until she saw the dark stain against the white snow that she gave a little hiss of pain and brought her thumb closer to her eyes to assess the damage. A slice no bigger than the length of her pinky ran down the inside of her palm. Dark blood pooled there.

She had already reached inside her pocket for her wand before she realized that she didn't have it anymore.

That she couldn't heal herself.

That she was alone, bleeding in the darkness, with only Malfoy for company. It seemed like a bad joke that had turned all too real.

She let out a string of curses that would have made Ron proud.

She missed her friends and family with a fierceness that left her feeling hollow and boneless, like she was just a puppet with too little straw.

And suddenly, between one second and the next, it was all too much- the isolation, the stress of the past year, the frustration, the feeling of being utterly useless.

Great sobs and frenzied gasp of air that hurt deep inside. Burned. She stayed that way for what felt like hours, until her body had exerted all its energy and left her in an increasingly familiar state of numbness.

After her sob had quieted, she sat and stared at the water. Watched the snow slow and the moon wane, watched it disappeared behind dark clouds, waited for it to appear again.

Hermione imagined puling herself back together, pictured filling in all the empty spaces with steel. Imagined she was stronger.

She took her time walking back to the cave, making sure to wipe all traces of the tears away and hoped that her eyes didn't look as bloodshot as they felt. But as she neared the entrance, Hermione suspected that she needn't have bothered.

By the time she stepped inside, the fire had grown cold. Nothing but scattered ashes remained.

Draco was gone.

And though she could breathe for what seemed like the first time in forever, the ghost of his presence still clouded the area, soaked into the stone and filling it with that sharp Slytherin scent.

She swore the walls had turned a little smaller in his absence.


	5. Chapter 5

_"_ _I say to my breath once again, little breath come from in front of me, go away behind me, row me quietly now, as far as you can, for I am an_ _abyss that I am trying to cross."-_ **W. S. Merwin**

* * *

Draco had been welcomed back by the Dark Lord with all the pomp and circumstance that his position demanded. Dozens of Death Eaters nodded along while Voldemort spoke, offering their own congratulations, too rough claps on the back, stingy words of approval. Pretense of concern. Draco accepted it with cold grace, knowing if their leader had been disappointed in Draco, not a single one of them would blink while he was torn to pieces.

He'd seen it done before. Had stood aside and let it happen before.

Knew one day, more likely than not, it would be his turn.

And though the entire room knew it was false, Draco had bowed low as if his lord had offered him the highest compliment. So they were all forced to do.

It was just a game- veiled threats hidden behind pretty words. One that Draco played better than the others.

He, who had served Voldemort faithfully many times before, had succeeded where others had failed. He suspected that's why his father was still alive. But the higher the rise, the more dangerous the fall.

And Draco had a terrible growing suspicion that a time was soon coming when he would be unable, for all his cleverness, to survive. Had a lingering inkling that he wouldn't see the end of this war like he had the beginning.

The sole figure of honest relief had come in the form of his mother, grown ever thinner in his absence. She had swept him up in her arms as soon as they were left alone and Draco had felt the indents of her spine, the imprint of each rib tripping up her spine.

And even though he stood over a head taller than her, Draco felt small as her hands traced patterns along his newly healed skin. As she whispered meaningless words into his ear, he felt the layers of carefully maintained defenses begin to unravel. Something that only she could do. For a few seconds, he allowed himself to soak up some of her warmth, to sigh into her hair.

The respite only lasted a few seconds. Bellatrix threw the door open and snatched her wrist before hastily yanking her out of the room. Back to her own chambers, whose walls contained her for most hours of the day and night. Draco grit his teeth and watched her go, forced a smile to his lips when she blew him a kiss, her back already bowed once more, meek and submissive in her sister's grip.

Voldemort claimed it was for her own protection. That it was the only thing to do after his father had proved to be such a disappointment. But Draco knew the truth. Look what I have, it said. Look who I control. And if you fail…

He ran a hand through his hair, dusty grey and ripped the tie from his neck with an annoyed growl. It was difficult to keep the anger flamed when he was so tired, wanting nothing more than to close his eyes and succumb to the pull of sleep. He wished not for the first time that he could sleep for years.

It seemed that Draco was to have no peace because before he could manage anything more than unbuttoning his shirt, Greyback lumbered in his room- having to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the stooped ceiling. His hair was long and tangled and filled with what appeared to be briars. He snarled upon seeing Draco, showing his razored teeth. Draco merely lifted a bored eyebrow and waited.

"The Dark Lord wishes you to take care of some unfinished business. A sizable withdraw of gold."

He heard the man give a hiss when Draco dared turn his back. An open invitation. But no matter how much he might wish Draco dead, there were lines even he would not cross. Killing one in Voldemort's inner circle would not prove helpful in the werewolf's ascent to power, no matter how much he craved blood. No matter how he would argue that his animalistic side controlled him.

Draco didn't answer right away. Better to let him wait, to remind him just who was in control. Instead he reached over to snatch an apple from the bowl on his desk.

But the thought of food sent his stomach on edge. Instead he uncorked a bottle of brandy-almsot empty, he grimaced and took a long swig, savoring the bite inside his throat, the way it made his eyes water.

After a minute, when he had decided that Greyback had been pushed enough, he sighed and gave a sharp nod. "If that's all-" he drawled, toeing off his shoes, clearly dismissing the werewolf.

Greyback's eyes were swallowed in black when they looked at him. "One day boy…" he trailed off, skin rippling to reveal the bulge of muscle underneath. And then he slammed the door shut behind him so roughly that it shook the entire room. He hadn't lost control.

Draco almost wished he had.

* * *

And so he had been sent to Gringotts. The Dark Lord's enemies were dropping faster than flies and since the dead had no use for their gold, it had all been collected and preserved and combined into one vault that grew each day until it surpassed even the Malfoy's riches. Diagon Alley reminded Draco of one of those muggle ghost towns that had stumbled upon gold for a year or two, had been filled to the brim, and then scraped empty. Deserted but for a solitary few that lingered. The Weasley twins' joke shop had been gutted and stood as nothing more than a skeletal remind of those who displeased Voldemort, burnt wood covered in ash and tattered scraps stomped into the dirt.

Draco imagined he could still smell the lingering smoke though it had all been swept away with the wind months ago. Ollivander, whose wand shop had been a staple since before he was born, had disappeared soon after. People still passed his shop and glanced through the dark, fractured windows, like they couldn't believe the thousand boxes of wands had vanished.

Draco schooled his features into one of boredom as he swept through the wide glass doors, as sparkling and polished as ever. If there was one institution that would never vanish, no matter who was in charge, he supposed it would be the bank of Gringotts.

Whispers followed his entrance. Hasty glances were thrown to his arm, to the symbol that stood out on his pale skin like spilt ink on white paper. His shoes echoed along the stone corridor but there were other noises too- the jangle of gold coins, the bartering that carried through the windows, the thrum of the mine beneath their feet.

Draco's footsteps echoed against the vaulted ceilings as he made his way past the crowds into the deeper chambers of the bank.

"A moment please." The words were said loudly and clearly and with none of the undercurrent of fear that Draco was used to hearing. The Goblin in front of him didn't shake or cower. He just looked up at Draco with small black eyes and waited.

When nothing more was said, Draco raised an eyebrow.

Clearly taking this as an invitation to continued talking instead of stepping out of the way, he said, "The Dark Lord cannot have what is not his."

Draco barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Goblins were supposed to be especially receptive to what was left unsaid and it was just his luck that he managed to come across the most obtuse of the bunch, "Everything is his."

"Why are you doing this boy?"

Draco wondered a moment at the sheer stupidity of the universe. The first person to question the reasons for his loyalty had been a bushy haired girl in a dark cave. He couldn't help but remember how she had looked then, tossed into light with the flimsy fire and warmed with rage and suspicion and an ocean of hatred between them. Draco had been trying not to think about that. But here, in the space of a few days, came another.

"You don't have any right to ask me anything." He said and made to move past the goblin. His fingers tightened on his wand when the slimy git moved with him, still blocking his way.

"I've watched you come through to do his bidding. You hide it well but I see what's under that skin. A scared boy in far over his head."

For a second, just a second, Draco felt a nudging respect for the audacity of the goblin. But others had seen; others had heard. That left him with no option, merely the pretense of one.

After it was over, Draco wondered why he had done it. Maybe it was to prove his resolve in front of the others that had begun to watch and wonder. Maybe it was because he knew the goblins would die before bending. But secretly, Draco thought it was to see what it felt like to kill, just for sheer pleasure. He imagined a veil dropping where finally, finally he might catch a glimpse of what Voldemort had known all this time. He could finally let go of the guilt that crippled him, that kept him up at night. Finally blacken out the last grey piece of his soul.

Draco made a slashing motion with the wand and the air was filled with the scent of the goblin's blood.

He was dead before he hit the floor and Draco was furious, furious that they had pushed him, furious that he was here keeping the goblins in order, furious at the growing crimson that stained the floor.

And all for gold that shined in the darkness. Gold that few would ever see.

Draco didn't feel overjoyed or even remotely satisfied. There was no sudden epiphany. No clarity, not even a feeling of superiority.

He just felt sick.

But he had done his job, he reminded himself, as he stored his wand back into his pocket. The crowd moved for him now, rippled away like waves desperately seeking to avoid the violent crash against land. Because of him, Lord Voldemort had one less enemy. And Draco knew that when the sun would rise again tomorrow, he'd do his job again, whatever that might be.

He could not fail.


End file.
